


Wildflower

by The_Magic_Rat



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Magic_Rat/pseuds/The_Magic_Rat
Summary: Cid waits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: I originally wrote this back in 2008. Then I sort of forgot about it. I wrote this as an anniversary gift for Animama, but her anniversary happens near the same day my best friend killed herself. I was still having a hard time dealing with it, and for some reason the radio stations were all playing THIS SONG, which was her song. So instead of fighting the emotions, I just went with them.
> 
> Song used is ‘Wildflower’ by Skylark.

“We are so not getting paid enough for this,” said Elena.

Tseng ignored her, looking through his binoculars, scanning the rocky outcrops and old growth forest that surrounded the City of the Ancients. A soft wind blew through his long black hair.

“Don’t talk,” said Reno. “He’ll find out we’re here.”

“He already knows,” said Tseng. “This is his territory. He’s wandered every square inch of ground. He knows we are here. He’s probably following us. It’s the best way to make sure he stays out of our way. Elena I want you to circle back. Reno, Rude, go on to the old temple, he spends a lot of time there. I’m going to go west.”

Tseng watched as his three underlings did as they were bid, then sighed heavily. “Next year they can catch their own damned gunslinger for the party,” he growled.

\--

“Cid, you’re wasted,” said Yuffie fondly.

“Yup,” he agreed amiably, face down on the table, cigarette smouldering in his hand. “I’m tanked.” He slowly raised his head and looked around at the inside of the mostly-empty pub. “Everybody came but Vincent,” he said sadly, and pouted. 

“Awww… poor Cid,” said Tifa. “You know what Vincent is like. He loves us, he’s just a bit…”

“Nuts?” said Yuffie.

“Strange?” said Barret.

“Paranoid?” said Cloud.

“All of the above?” said Cait.

“It would be easier to deal with if you weren’t sweet on him, huh Cid?” said Tifa sympathetically, stroking his short sandy-blonde hair. 

Cid forced himself to sit more or less upright, and opened his mouth to protest, but at the last moment he sighed like a deflating balloon, sagging in defeat.

“Yeah I’m sweet on him,” he muttered. 

“Awwww….” said Tifa. “See now that wasn’t so hard to admit!”

“Yes it was,” grumbled Cid.

“Why?” asked Tifa.

“Because he doesn’t like me back. I never hear from him, he’s never glad to see me…”

“That’s not true,” said Barret. 

“Oh it damned well is,” groused Cid. “Otherwise why is it we have to have the Turks hunt him down every damned year when we hold these parties?”

“Because he’s crazy,” said Tifa gently. “Okay? It’s not his fault and it has nothing to do with you or him or us. He’s sick. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about any of us. You know as well as I do that he would be here in an instant if one of us was in trouble.”

“Yeah, I guess,” pouted Cid. “You’re right.” 

The group sat and drank and talked, discussing past adventures, the small party going on well into the night. One by one the little reunion broke up, and eventually Cid found himself alone at the table, drinking, telling himself he wasn’t waiting to see anyone, he was just too drunk to risk getting up. May as well order one more beer. Then one more. Then the lights came up, and the bartender began tidying up for the night.

“Last call, buddy,” he informed Cid.

Cid nodded. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” he slurred quietly. He slowly rose to his feet, sighing heavily. He stuck a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, then glanced down at the floor. He noticed it was a plank floor, worn and cracked, and some of the boards were loose. There were spaces between the boards, and underneath there was only earth.

“My god this place is a dive,” he slurred. 

“And you drink here,” said the bartender.

“I w’z jus’ stating th’ obvious,” said Cid. “Night.”

Cid wove his way out of the bar and into the night, his boots scuffing on the dirt road. The moon was very low in the sky, and the cool air was fragrant and vaguely damp with dew. It was a beautiful summer night in Rocket Town, and Cid had no one to share it with. Well he could always go knock on Shera’s door, but…. Nah. He wasn’t that drunk. In fact he could _never_ be _that_ drunk.

He began weaving and wandering his way home, singing quietly, his booze-soaked brain processing the night. It had been great seeing the whole gang again… well…the whole gang minus Aeris and Vincent. And Aeris had an excuse. She was dead. Otherwise she would have been there with bells on – literally. But Vincent… he didn’t have an excuse as far as Cid could see. They never saw him, never heard from him, and the last two times they held this little get-together, they had to send the Turks out to catch him. The third time did not appear to be the charm. Not even the formidable Turks had managed to catch him this time. Vincent, it seemed, was nothing more than a ghost and a memory. He had accomplished what he had set out to do, and now he had gone to some hidden crypt to dream away eternity, lost in darkness.

Cid paused, staring at a form standing just outside a puddle of light, head down, arms crossed, clad in scarlet and black, leaning against an old wooden store front. Cid blinked to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing, then staggered forward, walking up to the tall, lean wraith. Cid placed a hand on the wall to brace himself and grinned.

“Well hi there honey, I thought I knew all the hookers on this strip.”

There was a very quiet laugh. “I’m new.”

“Wanna come to my place?” Cid grinned cheesily. “I’ll show ya my wrench collection.”

“Actually I came to ask you to leave me alone.”

The smile faded from Cid’s face, and his pleasant high was turning into a decidedly unpleasant low. “Oh.” 

“It’s nothing personal,” said Vincent quietly. 

Cid lowered his hand and straightened, clearly upset. “No. ‘Course not. Just b’cuz… hic… you don’ wanna see us or talk to us or be around us… how can that be personal?” He began wandering his way home. “Doesn’t bother me. Don’t bother me at all.”

“Cid…”

“Nope, that’s fine, don’t worry about me, I don’t mind,” said Cid, feeling his alcohol-soaked heart break. “I won’t waste one more… hic! minute… worrying. Not one. I won’t worry where you are, if you’re cold, or scared, or lonely, or… hrp! sad, or if you need help…” He waved a drunken hand dismissively. “None of that.”

Cid began toddling on his way home, weaving drunkenly, wiping at his eyes with one gloved hand. So what did he care if Vincent didn’t want to see them again? It didn’t bother him at all!

What was that sound? Was something following him? Cid stopped and spun about sharply, and found himself nose to nose with Vincent.

“Are you following me?” he slurred in a quasi-threatening manner.

“You’re drunk.”

Cid waved a hand dismissively, then poked Vincent’s nose with one leather-clad finger. “Lemme tell _you_ something, mister. I may be under the affluence of… hic!... incohol, but I’m not as think as drunkel peep I are.”

Cid turned and began weaving his way home. And once more he heard that sound – a very, very faint scrape of brass claws on hard dirt road. Why the hell was Vincent following him? Cid stopped and turned to face the person behind him once more.

“Why are you following me?”

“I told you. You’re drunk.”

“I been drunk lots of times, no one ever followed me before.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oooooooooh…” said Cid. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

Cid poked him again. “You can’t have it both ways, bat-boy. You care about someone… or you don’t. And you just told me you don’t. So… quit following me. Or I’ll call animal control and say there’s a big silly bat wandering around following drunks. Then they’ll come haul me away for a night at the police station.”

Cid turned and began making his way home once more, slowly travelling the half mile to his home, followed the entire way by the patient, measured step of an undead gunslinger. As he reached the door of his little house, he turned to once more face Vincent.

“Are you still back there?” he asked with mock belligerence.

“Yes.”

“Then you better get your skinny ass inside. We don’ wan’ it t’ freeze off. Y’ain’t got th’t much t’ lose.”

Cid turned and walked face first into the closed front door with a thump. He considered his plight for a moment, then backed up a step and hunted for the knob. Finding it, he turned it and opened the door, stumbling into the little house. Vincent followed after him quietly, closing the door after himself, watching as Cid went to the fridge for a beer. 

“I don’t understand why these parties are so important to you,” said Vincent. 

“’Course not!” Cid bit the cap off the bottle and spat it into the fire place. “That’s b’cause you don’t care. If you cared, you’d know.” He dropped heavily into a chair, pouting. “That’s fine. We don’ love you neither.”

Vincent seemed confused by Cid’s behaviour. “Then why do you send the Turks to come catch me?”

“We won’t be doing it no more. Don’t worry.”

Vincent seemed even more confused. Silently, almost demurely, he lowered his head and walked over to the fire, building it up from coals to a soft blaze. Cid drank his beer, then staggered off to bed, collapsing onto the old mattress and passing out, saying nothing more to Vincent. 

***---***

The hangover was on Cid like a rabid dog the moment he opened his eyes. His head pounded, his stomach rolled like a ship on a stormy sea, he was weak and clammy and sweaty, and the light of the dark rainy day was just entirely too bright.

He dragged himself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, throwing up what felt like a gallon of rancid liquid, some of it shooting out of his nose, and not all of it going where he intended. Reaching for the mop, he cleaned up the mess, then stepped into the shower, washing away the stink of cigarettes and old beer. He brushed his teeth, dressed in clean clothes, and began to feel something close to human. He took a couple aspirin, something for his stomach, and finally walked into the livingroom, ready to start the day. He began sorting through the clutter for some tools and a particular blueprint, then paused in mid-sort as he realized he was not alone. 

Cid blinked at the form a few mere feet away, lying on his side, settled deep in Cid’s favourite easy chair. Vincent was rolled into a ball, lying on his side, his small hands stuffed down between his thin knees. He was cold as ice and shivering slightly in his sleep, his face more or less hidden beneath matted black hair. 

Cid had never really watched Vincent sleep before, but now that he had… he felt emotions within himself that he never thought he would have towards Vincent. Emotions like pity, and worry, and just an overwhelming grief. Where did he go? Where did he stay? Who the hell looked after him? Did he just wander, mangy and aimless, over the face of the earth? Carefully, not wishing to awaken him, Cid reached out to place a hand on Vincent’s side. He watched as his hand sank into the torn fabric, eventually finding the tiny body buried deep beneath the leather and the cape. Cid slowly shook his head.

“Jesus jumping Christ on a cracker,” he muttered, shaking his head. He picked up the afghan that he kept beside the chair and spread it over Vincent, carefully tucking him in, then reached up to touch his face, gently moving aside the long hair. Cid sighed quietly, then went into the kitchen to start breakfast. May as well feed the silly thing, who the hell knew when he would eat next. Cid flipped on the radio, then started some eggs, trying to think what Vincent ate, if anything. After all he was dead, wasn’t he? Or rather _un_ dead. Well he wasn’t getting brains, not in this house, that was for sure.

Cid finished making breakfast, scrambled eggs with cheese, and carried a plate into the small, cluttered livingroom where Vincent was asleep. He placed the plate down on the small table beside the easy chair, and reached out to gently wake him, but stopped himself. In the kitchen, the radio played faintly.

__

Be careful how you touch her  
for she’ll awaken,  
and sleep’s the only freedom that she knows.  
And when you walk into her eyes   
you won’t believe  
the way she’s always paying  
for a debt she never owes,  
and a silent wind still blows  
that only she can hear, and so she goes...

Cid gently tugged the covers up a bit higher, leaving the plate of eggs on the table beside Vincent’s chair. He made his way into the hangar to get some work done, and when he came back hours later, the eggs were eaten, the blanket was folded, and Vincent was gone. The radio had been turned off. Outside the sky was black and the rain poured down in a torrent, soaking the curtains, and the only sound was that of a faint wind blowing through the open window. 

***---***

Winter came to the small community of Rocket Town. The sky was black most of the time, dumping snow on the little town. Cid was able to get little work done with the weather as bad as it was, so he spent most of his time in his modest house, drawing and designing aircraft at his desk near the fire. He would smoke as he drew, the cigarette tracing strange pictograms in the air as he bent over his desk, the only sound in the room the quiet crackle and hiss of the logs in the hearth. 

It was approaching Christmas, not that Cid paid much attention to Christmas. But it upset Tifa, Yuffie and Barret when he did nothing for the holiday, so this year he had bought a little potted pine and decorated it with silver stars that had once adorned the bottles that contained his favourite brand of rum. Yuffie would get a kick out of it. Tifa would probably give him a smack. At least it was pretty, the cheap plastic stars reflecting the firelight and sparkling with a myriad of hues.

The wind picked up, rattling the window like some spectre seeking entrance. Cid glanced at the window almost hopefully, but saw nothing other than darkness and falling snow.

“Silly,” he mumbled to himself. “You’re just being silly, Highwind. There’s no one out there.”

He was about to resume drawing his schematics, when the radio snapped on for no reason at all. It was an old tube radio, and the knob stuck, making it difficult to turn. Yet it just popped on and began to hum quietly, waiting to warm up so it could function. Eventually through the humming and static he began to hear a few bars of a song.

_… time her slender shoulders  
bore the weight of all her fears.  
And a sorrow no one hears  
still rings in midnight silence   
in her ears…_

Slowly, Cid reached out and turned off the radio, then stood up, leaving his table and drawings and cigarette. He walked to the front door and opened it, looking out into the storm, watching the snow fall. The only sound was the whisper of flakes falling fat and fast down to the ground, and the air was perfumed with ice and cold. Nothing moved in the December night other than Cid, shivering on the porch, scanning the darkness.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

The phone rang, and Cid went to answer it, lifting the receiver. “Hello?”

Static, and a very very faint strain of music that he recognized, though it was difficult to hear.

“… _a free and gentle flower, growing wild_.”

The line went dead, and slowly he hung up, turning to look at the door….

Nothing.

Cid grumbled and went back to his desk. “Great. Nothing like being haunted by the undead.” 

He picked up the pen, but did not resume drawing, Instead he stared out the window at the snow, his mind on a certain lean and wild figure wandering without direction or destination on the north continent. For some reason his eyes began to burn with tears.

“Come home, Vincent,” he said softly. “Just come home.”

No one came to the door. Cid drew for a few more hours, then went to bed, falling asleep to the sound of the wind moaning around the house.

***---***

Cid awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee, and the sound of somebody singing, and not well, though they clearly thought they had talent. That would be Yuffie, the second of their homeless wanderers. Yuffie however was rarely off the radar the way Vincent was. Yuffie would crop up here and there, mooching food and a place to sleep and paying for her keep by doing chores. Cloud likewise was homeless, but only in that his home was an abandoned church rather than anything conventional. At least they knew were Cloud was, and Yuffie was rarely out of sight. 

Cid got out of bed, wearing shorts and an undershirt, reaching for a cigarette and stuffing it into his mouth. Lighting it, he walked out of the bedroom and made his way into the kitchen. 

“Good morning!” Yuffie sang brightly. She looked him up and down. “Nice outfit.”

“Thank you. What’s for breakfast?”

“Bacon and cheese omelettes a la Yuffie!”

“I told you not to put gummy bears on my omelettes anymore.”

“I left them off yours.”

“Didja make coffee?”

“Of course!”

“You know I drink tea ya silly bitch.”

Yuffie stuck her tongue out at him. “Sit down and eat.”

He did. “So have you seen Vincent in any of your wanderings?”

“Nope,” said Yuffie, shovelling food into her mouth. “But I don’t go up to the City of the Ancients and that seems to be where he hangs. He’s okay, Cid. Wherever he is.”

“Yeah I know, I just… worry.”

Yuffie said nothing, not knowing what to say. They ate in silence, and then Cid went back to his blueprints, leaving Yuffie to tackle the kitchen. He wished her luck; that kitchen hadn’t seen a scrubbing since it was built.

“Do you care if I play the radio?” she called.

“Yuffie if you’re willing to clean that kitchen I don’t give a rat’s ass if you play the tuba.”

“Cool! But I left my tuba at home.”

She flicked on the radio, and Cid sighed as he heard the song playing. 

“For Christ fucking sakes, that song is over thirty years old, why the hell is it suddenly the only damned song on the radio?”

Yuffie peeked out of the kitchen, one eyebrow raised. “What song?”

“The one playing now! ‘Wildflower’ by Skylark!”

Yuffie stared at Cid as if he was out of his mind, then looked at the radio. She then looked back at Cid. “Uh… I don’t know what _you_ are listening to, Mr. Highwind, but what _I_ am hearing is ‘ _The Sun Will Rise Again_ ’ by the Arrogant Worms. And that is not a thirty year old piece of music.”

Cid listened. She was right. This was not Skylark. “But…? I could have sworn…”

“Cid are you okay?”

“Apparently not, that song is fucking haunting me.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s Vincent’s song.”

“Bullcrap.”

“Oh come on, Cid. Listen to the lyrics! The guy wrote it for a girl, sure, but listen to the words! You’ve been worried about him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Cid admitted. “I just… it makes me so upset! He’s got no one to look after him and nowhere to go, he just… wanders all over the planet all alone…”

“ _She's a free and gentle flower, growing wild,_ ” said Yuffie.

“Ah get away from me with that mushy shit. Go play your tuba.”

Yuffie rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen, resuming her cleaning. Cid promptly went into the over-crowded stockpile of parts he called a den and dug around for his collection of music, finding the album he sought. He put the old record on an equally old turntable, and set the needle down on the vinyl, listening to the song, reading the lyrics printed on the inner sleeve.

__

She’s faced the hardest times you could imagine,  
and many times her eyes fought back the tears.  
And when her youthful world   
was about to fall in,  
Each time her slender shoulders,  
bore the weight of all her fears.  
And a sorrow no one hears  
still rings in midnight silence   
in her ears.

Let her cry, for she’s a lady.  
Let her dream, for she’s a child.  
Let the rain fall down upon her.  
She’s a free and gentle flower,   
growing wild.

And if by chance I should hold her,  
let me hold her for a time.  
But if allowed just one possession,  
I would pick her from the garden   
to be mine.

Be careful how you touch her  
for she’ll awaken,  
and sleep’s the only freedom that she knows.  
And when you walk into her eyes   
you won't believe  
the way she’s always paying  
for a debt she never owes,  
and a silent wind still blows  
that only she can hear, and so she goes.

Let her cry, for she’s a lady.  
Let her dream, for she’s a child.  
Let the rain fall down upon her.  
She’s a free and gentle flower,   
growing wild

“Told ya,” said Yuffie.

Cid jumped, turning abruptly to face her. “Dammit quit sneaking up on people!”

“It’s _his_ song!” she insisted.

“Bull crap. If he’s a flower then I’m a Smurf.”

“I was thinking more like Grumpy the Dwarf.”

“How would you like a smack to the ass?” Cid took the record off the player and put it away.

“I’m terrified,” said Yuffie dryly. “No. Really. I am.”

“Go do something useful.”

Yuffie walked away. Cid went to the window and looked out at the dark winter skies, watching the snow fall, gazing across the small field behind his house to the line of trees that stood like white sentinels, guarding the little town.

“Come home, Vincent,” he whispered.

He stood there for a long time, but saw nothing.

***---***

Spring came, bringing torrential rains, washing the snow away in a cold icy slush that coated the world in brown. Yuffie had moved on to Midgar, helping Tifa with her bar for a while, leaving Cid to his aircraft. The sun seemed to have abandoned Rocket Town, and the rain was a constant presence, running down the windows, tapping on the roof, sneaking into the chimney to make the fire hiss. Cid paid little heed to it, keeping on with his work. He hadn’t heard the song since the night he played the record, and he was glad, not wanting to dwell on the images it gave him of a thin forlorn form, wandering listlessly from nothing to nowhere. So what did he care if Vincent chose to live his life in endless grief, lost and alone? It was _his_ life, or rather unlife. Was no skin off Cid Highwind’s nose, nosireebob…

“Cid?”

Cid almost threw himself off the aircraft, dropping his wrench and landing on the floor in one swift move. He stood, looking towards the hangar door, blinking, but saw nothing other than the open door and falling rain. He stared into the storming darkness, watching a brief silent flicker of lightning. Nothing moved. He was alone. Then the radio clicked on of its own accord.

“ _… for a debt she never owes, and a silent wind still blows that only she can hear, and so she goes…_ ”

“Vincent?” he said softly.

A soft wind blew, bringing a strange yet familiar scent, musty and grave-like, a smell that should have frightened him, but did not. He closed his eyes, and could almost see the thin figure standing beside him, feral and wet, gazing at him with red eyes.

‘ _He’s asleep,_ ’ Cid thought, for no reason that made any sense to him. ‘ _He’s asleep and he’s dreaming about me._ ’

It was a decidedly odd thought for Cid to have. He did not believe in ghosts and spectres and telepathy and other such things. But for some reason, standing alone in the hangar with that song playing distantly on a staticy radio, the rain falling hard in a curtain of grey tears… it did not seem that far fetched. He drew a deep breath, and turned his head to the image that he could only see in his imagination, yet knew deeply in his soul was there.

“Come home, Vincent,” he said quietly and firmly. “Just come home.”

‘ _I can’t. I have no home._ ’

“This is your home. Here with me. This has always been your home. For as long as I have known you… this is your home.”

There was a pause. The song crackled and wavered, and the wind picked up for a brief second. Cid could sense hesitation from the spectre. He drew another breath.

“Come home, Vincent.”

The spectre walked slowly away, vanishing. The radio turned off, and all that was left was the sound of the rain, and the occasional little gust of wind. 

Cid sighed and left the hangar, in no mood for work anymore. He crossed the lawn to his house, going inside and making himself a pot of tea, then building up the fire in the hearth. He poured himself a cup of tea, then seated himself in his favourite chair, but not before opening the window to permit the soft spring breeze to puff little gust of rain-scented wind into the house. Cid sipped his tea and waited.

***---***

It was late when he opened his eyes. The fire was crackling quietly, and the window was shut. Cid was aware of a thin body lying beside him in the old easy chair, damp and cold, and saw a pair of red eyes blinking drowsily at him. 

“I dreamed about you,” said Vincent sleepily.

Cid smiled, reaching out to touch the small, pale face. “I know.”

“You were telling me to come home. But… I don’t have a home.”

“Yeah ya do ya silly shit,” said Cid quietly, lowering his head to gently kiss Vincent’s lips. “You always did, right here with me.”

“So that wasn’t part of the dream?”

“No. That was me.”

Vincent smiled, very faintly. Cid drew the old afghan up over the both of them, drawing Vincent close. He kissed him again, and smiled as he felt the cool lips beneath his part, inviting him in. Cid pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. From the desk came the snap of the old tube radio turning on, then the quiet hum of the tubes warming before that oh-so-familiar song began drifting out. Cid broke off the kiss.

“Vincent? If you’re still dreaming… don’t wake up.”

“Never,” said Vincent softly, and pulled Cid down to kiss him once more as the radio played and the light rain tapped at the window.


End file.
